A Pantalone/Reader set during the Blood Money animation
Kieru is feeding us Pantalone simps REAL GOOD right now, and writing this was the most sane use of my time. I'm eating good, so it's only right I make sure y'all eat good too.
Notes: SPOILERS FOR BLOOD MONEY!!! PLEASE go watch it, it's so beautiful perfect amazing delicious, I'm biting the walls. This was also not beta read.
There are a few reasons the stranger at the end of the bar stands out.
Sure, there will be a few loners at the bar during your shift, but the clean cut white collar look of this guy makes him stick out like a sore thumb. He’s clearly here alone because men like him don’t come here. This is not a diss on your place of work of course, but this place caters mostly to blue collars finally getting the weekend off to watch the game, it’s not really where stock brokers come for happy hour after a successful quarter… or something.
Then you see the bandaging around his head, and your confusion shifts to concern. Now you want to know what this guy’s deal is. Did he get way too rowdy at the work function and get banned, and that’s why he’s here? If he has a head injury, should you even serve him? You’re pretty sure the rule with concussions is that they’re not allowed to sleep, that probably goes double for alcohol.
He looks up when you approach him, and he smiles back when you smile at him.
You start the conversation. “Hello there, I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
“No, no this is my first time here,” the man responds, and his voice is like velvet.
“I do have to ask, but, ah…” You gesture to the bandages around the man’s temple, pure white beneath black locks. “Is this something I should be worried about? I just wouldn’t feel right serving someone with a head injury, y’know? Nothing personal.”
“Ah, right, that… it’s fine,” he answers, “the doctor said I’m very lucky I’m not concussed, though I don’t exactly feel lucky.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” you tell him, “you certainly look like you’ve been through it. But, lucky you, you’ve got me to take your mind off things.”
He chuckles, looking at you with dark, weary eyes. “My hero.”
“So what can I start you with tonight?”
“What’s your red wine selection?”
“We’ve got some,” you tell him, “but I can’t guarantee it’s going to be up to your standards.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
He watches you search around the bar, pulling out a cheap red wine. It’s probably the most expensive wine in the bar but it’s definitely not high quality Mondstadt wine. You show him the bottle, and he looks somehow sadder at the sight of the brand. You let the man smell the cork as you pour him a glass. When he takes it, he swirls it around, he gives it a smell, and he sighs in disappointment.
“I did warn you,” you tease, “it’s not gonna be great.”
“It’ll do,” he says, raising the glass to his lips. He cringes a bit at the taste but gets over it quickly.
“I bet everyone’s asked you what happened a million times already,” you say.
“Actually, most of my circle is already aware of my circumstances,” he tells you, “so I’ve been rather fortunate in that regard. Wish they would have given me a few more days off, but you know how work can be about that sort of thing.”
“… Do you mind if I ask?”
He takes a swig. “Break-in.”
“Holy shit.”
He chuckles, but there’s no humour. “Yeah, holy shit.” He swirls his drink in the glass. “Former coworker of mine. Lost his job last year and apparently lost his mind in the meantime. I wasn’t the first, but I… I was the last.”
“So they caught him?” You ask.
“I shot him.”
Your face blanches and you clasp a hand over your mouth. Oh god, that’s the reason he stands out to you so much. You saw his face on the news the other night when they were reporting on the break-ins.
“I-I am so sorry—”
He raises his hand dismissively. “Please don’t apologize, I’ve gotten enough of that from work.
“Right, sorry— fuck, wait, shit. You know what I mean.”
Your stammering gets a more genuine laugh out of him. “It’s quite alright.”
You bite your tongue to hold yourself back from cringing at your own social blunder. You take a second to look at the rest of the bar. There are a few tables and two other patrons at the bar watching TV, nothing the other bartender or the servers can’t handle. You can give this guy a little more attention, he looks like he needs someone to talk to, preferably about anything else.
“So what do you do for work?”
“I’m an investment banker at the Northland Bank,” he answers, “and I’m currently gunning for a pretty big promotion right now. A really big one.”
“Nice. So are you getting a big bump in pay? Or are you aiming for a new role?”
His gloved hand gestures for you to come closer. You obey, leaning against the bar. He glances around the room, making sure no one is listening, then he lowers his voice.
“I could be president by the end of the month.”
Your eyes widen. “Really?”
He leans back a bit, and you pull back. “So long as there isn’t another hiccup, I’m pretty confident I’m getting the role. We made a lot this month, I won’t dare say the amount outloud, but it’s enough that I don’t think it’s even a competition anymore.”
You snicker. “Well, aren’t you confident. Just don’t let it get to your head so soon.”
He touches the bandage. “I’ll try, since last time something went to my head went so terribly.”
Yikes. You give an awkward laugh, not really sure how else to respond to that. “W-Well, now it just kind of makes me wonder, why are you here then? This place is a little ways away from the bank, and doesn’t really seem like your sort of style, you know?”
“I was actually a bit of a regular here back in the day,” he says, “when I was younger and… let’s say it was also when my wallet was a lot lighter.”
“I got you.”
“By the time I was making money, good money, I’m pretty sure that was when the place got sold to the current owners. I don’t recognize anyone here, but the place still looks the same.”
You nod along. “Yeah, I feel that. I’ve only been here a couple years so I can’t speak on that front, but I get that feeling whenever I pass by my old school and see there’s an addition.”
The man takes a gulp of his wine, licking his lips before he continues. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the past week,” he says, “about… life, really. How fast things can change while progress can take an eternity. How your decisions can mean so little in the grand scheme of things, but how a single moment in time can completely alter the course of your life from that point forward. You can spend your life crawling to the top and never see the peak, but one little push can send you toppling over the edge.”
You say nothing. You top his glass up and just listen. He pauses his rambling to smile at you, which causes you to smile back. He looks really pretty when he’s smiling, but he’s also just… really pretty to begin with.
“And sometimes, you’ll have one of the worst nights of your life, and then you have to pretend it never happened because that’s what everyone else is doing.”
“...”
He lifts his glass and takes a drink, then keeps drinking. You watch quietly as he finishes the full glass, then sets it back down on the bar. He looks at you over the silver frames of his glasses, expecting you to fill his glass back up. You do, but not as full, accounting for the little bit you gave him before he downed the whole glass.
“Apologies,” he finally says, “that was certainly a lot, I know.”
You shrug. “It’s nothing, really. You’re not the first person to spill their guts to me here, I just like that you haven’t done it literally.”
He snickers. “Most people would say I should talk to a therapist about that sort of thing.”
“That’s kind of my unofficial job anyways.”
“You’re a therapist?”
“I’m a bartender, which is cheaper.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.
“If you want my advice,” you tell him, “well, getting actual therapy is probably your best option, but I don’t think you need me to tell you that. I’m also sure you’ve heard everyone tell you to try and give yourself time to heal, or to practice meditation or something.”
“Hah, a few times. Maybe a few times too many.”
“I don’t exactly have any new advice for you,” you tell him, “but I’m at least willing to listen. Sometimes that’s good enough, especially if it’s something out of your control. Honestly, most of the time, when I’m ranting to my friends about my problems, it’s more about getting my frustration out of my system than it is asking for advice, and maybe having someone tell me they think whatever I’m going through sucks. People mean well when they give advice, but sometimes you just need someone else to let you vent and agree that something was fucked up, y’know?”
“That sounds nice,” he says, “and it’s probably some of the better advice I’ve gotten since the break-in. Unfortunately, I can’t say I have very many people willing enough to do that. Not very many I’d trust, anyways.”
“Well, you have me tonight.”
“And I appreciate it.”
He swirls the wine in his glass before he drinks it all. He sets the glass down, but stops you before you can fill it back up.
“I probably shouldn’t,” he says, “I was advised by my doctor to try and cool it with the drinking for a bit.”
“You said you’d be fine.”
“And I am. I just shouldn’t be drinking a lot. Really no one should, but then where would you be working if nobody drank.”
“Not to totally burst your bubble, sir, but no one else in the bar has a head injury.”
He wags his finger at you. “You got me there, I’ll admit it.”
You take his glass away. “So can I get you anything else? Water, a mocktail, we also have food here if you want some.”
“Actually, I should probably get going,” he says, “busy day tomorrow, gotta be up early. I’ll just pay and be on my way.”
“Do you need us to get you a ride?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “No, I’m more than capable of getting my own transportation.”
“If you say so, sir.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket while you bring the machine to him. His fingers brush yours briefly when he takes it from you. He taps the screen a couple times, touches his phone to the top of the machine, and hands it back to you. You print his receipt, and he laughs when you see the generous tip he left you. You then go to hand it to him, but he waves his hand again.
“Thank you, dear,” he says, “I hope you have a good rest of your night.”
“Hold on a second, sir.”
He’s already standing, but he stops in his tracks. He watches you curiously as you flip his receipt over, pull a pen from your pocket, and scribble something on the back. You hand him the receipt, and he takes it this time.
“...” He raises his brow, smirking. “Is this your phone number?”
The tone of his voice makes you realize how your actions come off as, and you feel your face get warmer. “I don’t do this with other customers,” you say, and realize that doesn’t make it sound much better, “but you’ve clearly had it p-pretty rough for a while. Just… just text me when you get home, that’s all.”
He laughs. “Well, aren’t you sweet. I appreciate it.” Just then, his phone buzzes, and he takes his eyes off of you to look. “Ah, my ride’s here already.”
“Take care, sir,” you call out when he’s halfway out the door.
He stops and waves goodbye, shutting the door behind him.
You step back from the bar, and you see the other bartender giving you a smug, all too knowing and even more condescending smile. Your face flushes more, so you busy yourself with tidying your end of the bar. They’re never gonna let me hear the end of it, you think.
When the banker takes a seat in the back of the car, he looks down at the receipt folded between his fingers. He slips it into his pocket, and confirms his address with the driver. He'll text you once he's inside, and then pop open the bottle of red wine waiting for him at home. A fine vintage from Mondstadt and your sweet smile is what will lull him to sleep tonight.
Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you push the bank’s doors open, warm air rushing past you into the cold evening. You don’t need to look to know that the bank is very empty right now. It’s about five minutes until the bank closes, no one in their right mind would be coming in right now.
You can tell the teller is thinking that when she looks at you, and barely suppresses her annoyance. She forces a smile when you approach. “Good evening, sir. Unfortunately, since we are closing soon, so I only have time for deposits or withdrawals.”
“I know,” you say, “but that’s not why I’m here.”
“If you have other business, I would recommend you come in tomorrow morning.”
You shake your head. “No, no, I’m not here for business. Or, not banking business.”
“Then I don’t believe I can help you.”
“I just want to know if the Regrator is here?”
The teller raises her brow, and the shift from customer service politeness to confusion allows her irritation to shine through. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
“The Regrator, is he here?”
The teller shakes her head. “No, he’s not, and if he was, he wouldn’t be available. It’s too late in the day, and the Regrator doesn’t take walk-ins. You’d have to book an appointment with him ahead of time, and that alone would be difficult. He is very important, after all.”
You take a moment to appreciate the passive aggressiveness of the teller’s words, then continue what you were doing.
“Well, can I leave this here?” you ask, then gesture to the wrapped gift under your arm. “I have something for him,” you explain, “and it’s important that I make sure he receives it.”
The teller shakes her head. “You do understand why we can’t just accept any sort of package or gift for the Regrator, right?”
Your brow furrows in confusion. “I, ah–”
“Pantalone is a very important and very powerful individual,” she explains, “his mail has to go through a screening process before it can be given to him to ensure that there is nothing harmful inside. It’s just policy.”
“The Northland Bank screens all of his mail?”
She stares at you. “No, it’s just common sense.”
You sigh. “Fine, I’ll talk to him tomorrow about it.”
“That won’t be possible,” the teller says, “he’s leaving for Liyue tomorrow and will not be back for the next week or so.”
Wait, what? “Are you serious?”
“Very,” she confirms, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about that, and the Northland Bank will be closing in about a minute.”
You turn around, briefly catching sight of a very bored guard, and see the clock hanging up on the wall. You squint a little. You can kind of see the time, the hands are a little thin and the clock is a little far, but she’s about right. There’s maybe a minute and a half before the bank is officially closed. You sigh, and figure you’re already the annoying person coming in when the bank is about to close, you don’t have to be the one that stays until the last minute, either.
You bid the teller farewell, and turn on your heel. You suppose it can wait until Pantalone comes back, but you would have rather given it to him now. Besides, it’s been weeks since he stopped by to visit you, and you’ve been wanting to properly sit down and talk with him and make up for the awkwardness of your last encounter.
You don’t notice the sound of his boots coming down the stairs but you know Pantalone’s voice all too well.
“Well, aren’t you a pleasant surprise after a long day!”
You turn and see him descend the remaining steps and quickly cross the floor. The teller seems surprised, but your focus is more on Pantalone’s face. He thrusts his hand forward, and you can’t help but laugh when you reach forward and shake it.
“Why so formal?” you ask.
“It’s been some time since I’ve seen you, and I am still at work, you know,” he replies, “though I suppose I’m off the clock now.” He looks over his shoulder, presumably at the teller. “Can you make sure my report for Miss Kuznetsov is delivered by tomorrow afternoon? I’ll be meeting with her after my trip, so it’s important she gets it.”
“O-Of course, sir!”
Pantalone holds the door open, allowing you to leave first. “You have a meeting with my sister?”
“We’ve noticed a discrepancy in the budget,” he says, “so we’re doing an investigation. It sounds more serious than it really is, but it could cause troubles down the line if we don’t get it sorted.”
That doesn’t quite sit right with you, but you can probably get the story from Lydia. “Alright…”
“Anyways, while you’re a welcome sight here,” he continues, “I’m afraid I’m short on time. Very short, actually.”
“Your teller mentioned you were going to Liyue, right?”
“Indeed I am,” Pantalone confirms. “There’s been an uptick in profits with the Liyue branch of the bank, and I have other business that needs taking care of, so I’ll be heading off first thing tomorrow.” He grins at you. “This means you better have something very important to share.”
“I do, actually.”
You sort of unceremoniously present Pantalone the wrapped gift, earning a look of pleasant surprise. He takes the gift from you, weighing it in his hand and admiring your not terrible but not particularly great wrapping job. The ribbon looks nice, at least.
Pantalone walks down the steps of the bank, and you follow behind him. “I didn’t realize you were leaving tomorrow,” you tell him, “I’ve been busy, b-but I would have come and seen you yesterday had I known–”
“Why not mail it?” Pantalone asks.
“Well, it only arrived a few days ago,” you explain, “and again, I’ve been very caught up in my work, plus I didn’t want to risk it somehow getting lost or damaged in the mail. Besides, the mail takes time.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” Pantalone remarks. He stops to look at you. “Say, since you’re on the way, would you care to ride with me? We can continue the conversation that way.”
“O-Oh, ah, yes,” you reply, “I’d greatly appreciate it.”
You recognize the covered sled waiting for Pantalone as the one he sent you home in when he gave you the letter from the Yae Publishing House. It feels like it’s been forever since that day, and yet you remember your excitement like it was yesterday. Really, it’s only been two months, which is still quite a stretch of time. After a word with the sled driver, Pantalone takes his seat in the sled first, patting the spot next to him. There isn’t much room in the sled, which you attribute to this likely being Pantalone’s personal ride, so it’s not built for anyone else. While not squished together, you can’t sit down next to Pantalone without touching him in some way.
You shut the door, and after a moment, the sled begins moving. You place your hands in your lap and try to give Pantalone room, which he seemingly finds amusing.
“So, what is it that I’m holding?” Pantalone asks you, tapping his fingers on the gift.
You chuckle nervously. “Wouldn’t telling you defeat the whole purpose of a gift?”
“Would it kill you to indulge me?”
“It would, actually. On top of my eye disease, I have this horrific disorder that prevents me from indulging people.”
Pantalone snorts. “It’s odd seeing you act like the insufferable one. It’s refreshing.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”
He shakes his head, chuckling softly as he pulls the ribbon apart. He turns the gift over a few times, his fingers trailing along the paper to find the perfect place to start tearing. When he starts pulling the wrapping apart, he’s careful with it, trying not to actually rip the paper. It’s similar to how your brother’s wife opens gifts, not wanting to destroy the paper so she can reuse it for other presents.
When the gift is freed from the paper confines, Pantalone goes still. The butterflies in your stomach are in a frenzy as his fingers gently trace the cover, underlining the title of the book in his lap. He lifts it slightly, just to try and get a closer look at the cover’s design. He turns it over to look at the back, then opens the book, to the very first page.
With your heart pounding in your ears, you just barely hear his voice.
“This is your book,” he says.
You nod. “Y-Yes, it is.”
He thumbs through the pages, the fluttering sound is a pleasant one. “I didn’t realize it was out already. I would have thought you’d tell me the official publishing date.”
“That’s, ah… that’s because it’s not.”
Pantalone looks at you, puzzled. “Come again?”
“The book’s not out,” you reiterate, “it actually comes out n-next week. They sent me a few beta copies of the book after we had finalized a design, so I kept one, gave one to my editor, a-and… and saved the last one for you.”
There’s something in the way Pantalone’s gemstone eyes widen in tangible, genuine surprise. The moment is brief, but you still bear witness to it, and the way he blinks and tries to put up the polite, professionally cordial mask. He tries, but you’ve clearly thrown him off a little.
“You saved it for me?” Pantalone asks. “That’s certainly very sweet of you, but I can’t imagine why you’d pick me of all people.”
“I mean, it was you who put me in contact with Guuji Yae,” you tell him, “so for one, you quite literally wouldn’t be holding my book if you hadn't done that.”
“Fair point!”
You feel your cheeks start to burn, and you cast your eyes down to your lap. “The, um, the main reason, though, is that you… Gods, this feels ridiculous to admit, but I’ve grown to really appreciate your presence in the months I’ve known you, and this felt like one of the best ways to express that.”
“And why is it ridiculous, comrade?”
“I-I could have probably phrased that differently,” you say. “What I mean is that you’ve done a lot for me in the short time we’ve known each other, d-despite the fact you don’t really have any business with me. You got me the book deal, but I also really appreciate that you don’t make any sort of fuss about my condition, or my, ah, preferences.”
Pantalone traces his finger just under your name on the cover of your book. “Is that so?”
“Alik’s pretty good about it, but they’ve overprotective of me in the past. I like that you’ve yet to make it a big deal. You also haven’t let it slip that I like men, and you haven’t tried blackmailing me with it either.”
The blackmail comment makes Pantalone laugh, which relieves the tension in your body so much that you join him in laughing. Your stomach is still doing flips though. You worry what you just told him sounds too much like a confession, or that he’ll think it’s a confession and turn you down. You try to swallow those thoughts, worried that if they’re conveyed even a little bit in your expression, everything will spill out.
“Well, I am incredibly thankful for the gift,” Pantalone says, “it’ll keep me company during my travels! I can’t say I’ve had the honour of getting a book before it’s available to the public. I’ve only ever gotten out of print collector’s editions of books.
“It is a beta copy,” you reiterate, “so there might be some imperfections here and there, but I didn’t see anything when I flipped through it. I hope it also goes without saying that I would really, really appreciate it if you kept any spoilers to yourself until the book actually comes out.”
“My lips are sealed. Do you have any plans to celebrate?”
“In two weeks, so a week after the book’s out, I’m going to the bookstore to do some signings for Plucking Heartstrings and my other books,” you tell him, “and then sometime after that, I’ll be having a get together with a few close friends and family. Nothing’s set in stone quite yet, but you’d be welcome to join if you have the time for it.”
“Hopefully I’ll be free,” he says, “though I’m sure if worse comes to worst, we can find something else to do to celebrate. I think I’d actually prefer it that way, not having to worry about putting up fronts our dealing with insufferable behaviour.”
You smile, because the gesture is polite. You swallow, because your brain chooses to interpret the gesture in a way you would very much enjoy, which makes you salivate. “That sounds like a good plan to me,” you reply with an eager nod.
You try to study Pantalone’s words and expressions during the remainder of your ride home, seeking any sort of deeper meaning to his offers and promises. Your brain wants to interpret his generosity and interest as something more than platonic, but you can’t see it. You don’t think you do, anyways, nothing that you can confidently call out. There’s actually a voice in your head that tells you to just ask him, without fanfare or drama, if he likes men, but even if you did have the guts to ask him outright, the sled has stopped outside your residence.
“This has been nice,” Pantalone says, “I wish you and your book well.”
You smile. “Thanks, and you as well. I hope your trip goes swimmingly.”
With that, you step out of the sled, and you rush up to your estate’s front doors. A maid opens the door, and Pantalone watches you turn around and wave. He waves back, and watches you disappear inside.
He’s smiling when he stares down at your book. He wonders if your little crush will show in the pages as much as it shows on your face.
I was originally just going to send this to a few other simps on discord but I think it would be cruel not to share with everyone else.
Notes: Some dom/sub dynamics, one mention of using a safeword, the whole thing is literally just Pantalone giving head. There is like one instance where I use "cock" and/or "clit" for reader's anatomy, but for the majority of the post I leave it purposefully vague/neutral so that you can decide what's going on downstairs.
18+ only beyond this point, minors dni
Like any good lover, Pantalone loves going down on you, but do not be mistaken; it’s not a wholly selfless act. See, Pantalone prides himself as a man of fairness. Unfortunately, his definition of “fair” doesn’t always match up with yours. He’ll only give you what you want when he thinks you’ve earned it, and what makes that unfair is his criteria is constantly changing.
Most often, he’s returning the favour. You’ve been such a sweet and obedient little pet, lapping and sucking on his cock just the way he taught you, swallowing every drop he has to give you. Such good behaviour should be rewarded, right? Right. He takes a moment to gather his breath, to admire the sight of you on your knees, licking a stray drop of his seed up, before he pulls you up from under his desk and sits you on top of it. “It’s only fair that I repay you for your services, no?”
Other nights, he makes you work and beg for it. Sucking him off isn’t enough to convince him that you want it, that you need it, but what is it, exactly? Oh, you want him to please you? Do you want his fingers to stretch your lonely hole open? Or to stroke your hard cock, or tease your sensitive clit? Oh? It’s his tongue, his mouth that you want down there? Surely you can beg for it better than that, can’t you? Maybe if you give him a good show and prove how much you want him, he’ll indulge you.
On rare nights, you’ve earned it not as a reward, but as a punishment. Restrained and at his mercy, your tears sting your eyes as you beg him to please, please fuck you, you’ll behave, you promise, you’re sorry for acting out but you promise to be good for him if he fucks you properly. He merely glares at you from between your legs. You get a moment of relief when he lifts his head up to breathe. He wipes the drool from his lips before he addresses you.
“That almost sounds genuine, but I’m not convinced you’ve actually learned anything.”
You know what he really means though, that he doesn’t actually care. He won’t stop until you’re crying from overstimulation and his jaw is sore, and maybe then he’ll fuck you, or until you call out the safe word.
Some nights, he’ll give it to you because he knows you need it. You’ll come home, tired and frustrated after a long day and tell him you want nothing more than to lay down and relax. It starts soft and sweet, with him doting on you and making sure everything is to your liking. You tell him you’re comfortable now, and you do feel better now, but you’re still annoyed and upset by the day’s many perils and obstacles that you just can’t seem to settle in properly.
“Oh dear, that’s awful,” he’ll coo into your ear. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he’ll continue, pressing a kiss to your pulse point, your neck, your collarbone. He’ll stop before getting to your chest and look up at you, and at this point, he doesn’t bother hiding his shameless expression when he tells you “I can help take your mind off of it, if you’ll be a dear and let me.”
With how polite he is, you’d be a fool to refuse his offer, but he knows you won’t. You’re already lifting your hips up so he can expose you before you actually tell him to go ahead. Your fingers will be threaded through his hair before his lips kiss below your navel, and he’ll relish that beautiful sound you make when he finally has his mouth wrapped around you.
Most importantly, he does it because he loves it. Specifically, the control he has over you. You’re telling him that he can have you writhing and moaning, crying his name with a sinful reverence that rivals divine prayer, and all it took was a few well placed licks? A gentle suck on your most sensitive parts? It’s such a simple gesture and he can have you falling apart in moments. Of course he’d enjoy it, how could he not when you react so perfectly?
once i figure out how to do anatomy and facial expressions and proportion and foreshortening and basic perspective and color theory and composition then youll all be sorry
“do you wanna argue with nanami, get wrecked by toji, or fall into sukuna’s domain in a groupchat at 3am?” same. that’s why i made this server !
🕷️ JJK SANDBOX RP SERVER — CANON WRITERS NEEDED (18+)
hi hi! i’m putting together a jujutsu kaisen-inspired sandbox RP server where OCs, self inserts, canon muses, and y/n-style characters can exist together — no pressure, just vibes, connection, and creative freedom.
right now, i’m still looking for writers for:
• Choso (softest chaos. would love him.)
• Sukuna (feral menace? devoted god? you pick.)
• Gojo (messy king. the server needs him.)
• Geto (love him, adore him)
✦ canon roles are limited to one writer each
✦ writers must be 18+ (21+ preferred)
✦ any literacy level is welcome, but canon writers should be literate/novella-style
✦ samples (when wanting to play a canon) are required — a drabble, blog, headcanon post, rp snippet — anything that shows your vibe with the character!
Toji and Nanami are already taken — and would love people to talk to! if you’ve ever wanted to scene with them, have a private message convo, or spiral over coffee in the groupchat… we’re saving you a seat 🫶 the vibe is part host club, part canon-divergent universe, and totally open-ended. once one more canon spot is filled, server invites go out!
🔗 like/reblog this if interested, or dm me to chat!!
Hmm~ Whew, the weather today's just perfect for relaxing atop a tree.
Compared to the terribly exciting life I've been leading lately, this kind of leisurely routine just suits me better.
Thanks to you, Mondstadt was able to pull through its time of crisis and return to a time of peace. That means I get to return to being an easy-going bard again!
Mayhaps I shall grace you with a song written in your honor, as an expression of my thanks? Hear ye, hear ye, my gratitude already rustles like a melody through the leaves!
When I was little I had an irrational fear of when you tried to turn off your Windows XP and the screen would gradually turn Grey as you choose which power option to enter
